Recipe for Disaster
by ruth baulding
Summary: If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen. Sequel to Peer Pressure.
1. Chapter 1

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 1**

"Master. A question."

Qui-Gon Jinn modulated his soft exhalation of chagrin so as not to disturb the Archives' other occupants. "We have already more than exhausted the topic, Padawan."

"And yet we have not reached a conclusion," the obstreperous younger Jedi retorted.

"We have not reached the conclusion _you_ desire," the tall man corrected, tightly.

Obi-Wan's expression was thunderously civil. "Indeed not."

"Your question?"

Alert to the clear warning signal latent beneath this last prompt, Qui-Gon's silently fuming protege nevertheless leapt boldly into the breach. "What in the _blazes_ does cooking have to do with Jedi training?"

Qui-Gon's offered his apprentice what he knew to be an insufferably smug smile. "It is on the standard curriculum, is it not? So it must be important."

"I am _not_ wasting my time learning how to make soufflés or debating the proper way to crack open a thranctill egg."

The tall man slotted a holo-volume back in to place among its gently glowing companions and turned to survey his disgruntled young student. "Do you wish to garner fame as the _only_ senior padawan who has not passed the course requirements?"

"I'm not the only one," Obi-Wan snapped back, falling into hurried step beside the older man as they proceeded down the aisle and into the main promenade. "Quinlan Vos also refuses to – oh _no," _ he swiftly amended, catching wind of his master's next tyrannical whimsy. "Absolutely not. I'm not to spend time with him, remember? Master Tholme explicitly forbade it."

"I have always thought that prohibition to be suspiciously aligned with your own preferences, Obi-Wan."

They halted beneath the main entrance's wide arch. "Be that as it may-"

"Be that as it may, I think we've found the answer to your previous question."

Obi-Wan gaped for a moment before remembering his precious Jedi dignity. He snapped his mouth shut again and jogged to catch up with Qui-Gon as they crossed the soaring annex hall. "Master… you cannot be serious."

"Alas," the Jedi master smiled, " I am in deadly earnest. You and Padawan Vos can enroll together; I daresay that by the end of the experience you will be able to articulate the connection between _cooking_ and the life of a Jedi."

They parted ways at the next intersection, one with a satisfied spring in his step and the other in stunned disapprobation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 2**

Vos was waiting in ambush behind a support pillar.

"Kenobi! You sneaky bastard! It's good to see you again, man." This unconventional salutation was accented, predictably enough, by a solid punch in the shoulder.

Obi-Wan rubbed at his bruised flesh and straightened his tabards. The _older_ tunic he had chosen to wear for this singular misadventure was a trifle snug through the back and through the chest – evidence that he _did_ grow, contrary to libelous rumor spread by Garen Muln et alia – and, he noted with a glum pang of humility, somewhat frayed along the hemline. But he would _not_ sacrifice his newer set of whites upon the altar of culinary necessity. If he knew one thing about kitchens, it was this: they were messy.

His companion, by contrast, was clad in a _proper_ dark uniform rather than affecting the garb of a delinquent layabout as was his wont. "This is going to get ugly, Vos. You needn't have dressed formally for the occasion."

The Kiffar shrugged. "Didn't want to get my _good_ stuff all mucked up, ya know? So… what's your excuse, huh?"

"What?" Conversation with Vos could easily engender psychic whiplash.

"For being here. I came to the Temple late, so I've got to make up for lost time. I thought all the initiates had to pass the cooking course – so what happened to you? Clanmaster didn't trust you with sharp objects?"

"No," Obi-Wan snapped, blushing violently. It was not Vos' business.

The other padawan flashed his wolfish grin. "That's okay, man. I _still_ don't trust you with a knife. People are liable to lose arms and all."

Very funny. The subject of this jest folded both arms over his chest. He would not be provoked by Quinlan, especially not in front of _younglings._

"Whoa! Here come the troops," Vos muttered, as a small tribe of initiates came pattering down the corridor on the heels of Troon Palo,

"All right!" the gigantic hirsute Jedi master roared, bringing his double line of enthusiastic charges to a full halt. "And here's the remedial class, heheheh. Let's get on with it, then." He waved open the classroom door with one heavily furred hand and shepherded them all through the wide double doors, aiming a playful swat at the older boys' heads as they passed beneath the lintel.

Anticipating the order, Troon's clan scampered to take places at the broad tables along the chamber's perimeter.

"You two," the clanmaster addressed the pair of wary adolescents lingering near the entrance. "Find a place – you're partners for the duration."


	3. Chapter 3

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 3**

"I have a bad feeling about this," Obi-Wan darkly confided in his new partner as they took up position behind the nearest slab-countertop worktable.

"Relax," Quinlan advised. "How bad can it be? It's all about _food."_

Vos had clearly not spent time at diplomatic banquets in the company of Qui-Gon Jinn. A few harrowing experiences suffered at the delicacy-laden tables of foreign ambassadors had swiftly expunged from Obi-Wan's mind any naïve automatic association of _food_ with _good._ He scanned the room for signs of wriggling worms, or revolting hoi broth, but Troon appeared to have opted for a more theoretical approach this first session. He exhaled in relief.

"Right," Vos muttered. "Where's the grub? Let's get this show on the road."

"First things first," Troon bellowed, at the head of his class. "What makes cooking _cooking, _ rather than just procuring food like an instinctual beast, eh?"

Every small hand in the class shot up; the elder boys bided their time. _Questions,_ any experienced padawan knew, were things to be approached with extreme prejudice.

Eager young voices supplied various inventive answers to Troon's inquiry: cooking was distinguished primarily by the use of tools, by the need for a heat source, by the admixture of different ingredients, by the complexity of its processes. One child proposed that animals ate each other, while nobody in the galaxy _cooked_ each other, a fond notion dispelled by a brief foray into the cannibalistic tendencies of the Ewok race. Another youngling inquired innocently whether they would be allowed to use _knives_ in the near future, earning a small smile of solidarity from Obi-Wan and a quelling look from Troon.

"Hey," Vos whispered, jabbing an elbow into his companion's side. "Last guy to use this table whacked off a finger."

"_Vos."_ The Kiffar's vaunted telemetric abilities were a positive distraction in certain circumstances. "Please."

Fingers splayed upon the scarred work surface, Vos pushed the issue. "No, really. Look at that stain there. Blood or I'm a monkey-lizard's uncle."

There _was_ an unsightly russet-colored blemish upon the _tari_ wood slab. Obi-Wan squinted at the suspect discoloration, wondering if Vos could _truly_ read the lingering Force signature of the last user, or whether this were a splat of dried tuber-juice.

"Kenobi!" Troon's stentorian voice jolted him back to the present moment.

"I'm sorry, Master." He ignored Vos' barely smothered guffaw.

"Let's hear your answer," the clanmaster growled.

Oh, well then. "Cooking? It's essential and specific difference from animal hunting and foraging is its contextualization in a socio-linguistic symbolic matrix; in other words, its purpose is sublimated from the pragmatics of survival to interpersonal and cultural unification. Only sentient beings integrate bodily functions such as eating into a wider moral and emotional fabric."

Troon grunted his grudging approval.

"Same holds true of mating rituals," Vos added off-handedly, inspiring loud titters from the gathered younglings.

"That's enough from the peanut gallery," their enormous instructor snarled. "Any questions?"

A small Rodian girl squeaked out the obvious one. "Are we going to cook anything, Master?"

"Patience," Troon rumbled. "Patience."

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his bristled hair. It was going to be a _long_ afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 4**

"All right, you lot. Open the drawers beneath your table and tell me what you see."

"_Knives?"_ one of the energetic younglings peeped.

Troon Palo snorted, a sound like thunder. "What do we practice with before we get _real _ sabers?"

Standing beside Obi-Wan, Vos moaned. "Ah, no. Not bokken."

Sure enough, the inset drawer proved to contain nothing more lethal than several blunt implements carved of the same _tari_ wood as the countertops. Quinlan handled the various "practice" knives with a critical eye, idly twirling the heaviest of the set through his fingers and then clutching it in a reverse grip, _shoto-_style.

"Vos," ObiWan primly upbraided him. "Have you ever considered setting a proper _example?"_

His companion lifted one already-broad shoulder. "I thought I was. Showing 'em how it's done."

"Nobody gets anything with a real edge on it 'till I see some _perfect _katas," Troon bellowed.

Obi-Wan relaxed fractionally. Weapon katas, and a standard of unfailing perfection, were not such terra incognita as cooking; he attended carefully to the massive clanmaster's ensuing demonstration of correct slicing, chopping, carving, and dicing technique, and then set about honing his own performance in unison with their two dozen classmates. Compared to lightsaber drills, the limited range of motion demanded by this new exercise was a cakewalk. He accelerated his tight, accurate movements until his bokken was a blur, its perfectly controlled staccato rhythm a continuous thrum against the hard countertop.

Vos, meanwhile, grew bored and elaborated upon the basic forms. At first his innovations merely involved the occasional encroachment upon his partner's workspace, and were easily repelled by simple back-handed parry. Soon enough, however, the novel additions included occasional aggressive lunges at his companion's knees and thigh beneath the counter – compelling his opponent to dodge and twist sideways, and ultimately to reply in kind.

Aggressive negotiations were well underway at the back table when Troon noticed that the attention of his young charges was firmly riveted upon the amusing spectacle provided by the padawans in the far corner. Wooden knives dangling limply from slack fingers, mouths open in appalled disapproval or burgeoning hero-worship depending on the gender and inborn temperament of the beholder, the erstwhile devotees of culinary excellence found themselves privy to an unparalleled display of speed, agility and ruthless cunning.

When, in the heat of their mock combat, Vos foolishly attempted to strike below the belt, Obi-Wan slammed an elbow into his midriff and pinned his foe's right sword-arm against the table, locking their opposite hands in a tight bind above their heads. A bit more pressure, a flick of the Force, and Vos' weapon went skittering away, spinning a wild dervish dance across the polished floor until it was brought to an abrupt halt by Troon's enormous foot.

The good-natured tussle ended in the same instant that the towering clan-master's bright eyes locked onto the culprits still half-sprawled upon their shared table.

"All right," the Jedi master growled, evoking a simultaneous cringe from his smaller students. Six long strides bought him within striking distance of the felonious pair. "If you two are so anxious for an extra challenge, I've got _just_ the thing."


	5. Chapter 5

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 5**

"This is all your fault, Kenobi," Quinlan Vos philosophically observed, squeezing a tuberfruit out of its rough skin with a wet squelch. He tossed the steaming innards at his fellow convict, who wearily caught said slippery projectile in midair with the Force and levitated onto the litter-strewn chopping block in front of him.

"I did not _start _the fight," this person pointed out. "I merely finished it."

The Kiffar padawan rolled his shoulders and released an expressive sigh of exasperation. "Well, I wish you would finish _this_ load of rancor chisszzk."

"I'm _working _on it," Obi-Wan groused, flexing his cramping fingers and taking up a tighter grip on the –very real, sharp-edged- knife in his right hand. "How many star-forsaken tubers does it _take_ to feed this Temple? I thought gluttony was proscribed by the Code." He whacked the steaming root in half with a sour _sai mok_ downward strike, and then diced its corpse into tiny cubes of perfectly uniform resentment.

"You think about the Code too much, man."

"Well, at least _I_ think, Vos."

The insult slid off its intended target much as the discarded peels slid into a nearby receptacle destined for the garden composter.

"I can take over if you're thrashed, brother."

Obi-Wan squinted balefully at his partner in crime. There was no way in the nine hells he was relinquishing the knife to Vos, whose irresponsible acrobatics had been the origin of their present predicament. "I'm _fine."_

"Whatever."

One of the innumerable service bots in charge of the labyrinthine kitchens hovered its way toward them, warbling emotionless instructions and gesticulating with its fine-tuned manipulators.

Quinlan offered its retreating form an insouciant salute. "We're on it, mate. Right, Kenobi?"

"What I don't understand," Obi-Wan impulsively confessed, as he quartered his next victim with a savagery most certainly forbidden by the rules of tourney, "Is why we need blasted _cooking_ lessons in the first place."

Vos sent four more denuded roots his way. "Loosen up," he advised. "Everybody needs to learn how to cook. It's one of those things. You know, like taking a whiz standing up. You got that down pat yet?"

The next tuber was impaled and then neatly disemboweled. "Yes… and I'll be happy teach you how - once you've sorted out your back from your front."

But Vos only chuckled amicably and squeezed yet another tuber out of its skin."You put the _un- _in _fun, _ Kenobi."


	6. Chapter 6

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 6**

Obi-Wan dragged himself back to quarters that evening far later than anticipated.

"There is a stain on your tunics," Qui-Gon callously observed, setting his empty tea bowl down and casting an amused eye over his dispirited apprentice. "I took the liberty of saving you a plate... since your absorption in study seems to have precluded an appearance in the dining halls."

The boy perked up fractionally at the mention of food, but when he caught sight of the nourishing tuber-based stew, he turned a cold shoulder upon this offer. "Thank you, but no."

"I missed our evening spar," the Jedi master innocently lamented.

"Believe me, so did I, Master."

The tall man spared his slumping protege a tiny smile. "Still, it is good that you and Padawan Vos were so deeply engaged in extra practice together. Shared endeavors can solidify a healthy dynamism."

"I thought I was a noxious influence?" Obi-Wan inquired, hopefully. He rummaged in their empty storage cupboard for tuber free edibles, and released a grumbling sigh when his quest proved doomed to failure. "We've nothing to eat."

"A tragedy directly consequent to your ravenous appetite, young one. And I do not think you are quite such the bad influence that you would have us all believe." Qui-Gon's perspicacious gaze slid between his apprentice's shoulder blades like a shiv.

"I set a bad example for two dozen initiates today," the subject of this honed scrutiny protested.

The Jedi master raised a reproving brow. "Do it again tomorrow and you shall also set an example of abject penance and reparation for the entire Temple."

Warning duly registered, Obi-Wan settled for some soothing ha'chi. "I still don't see why in the all merciful Force I need cooking lessons. I can char meat over a campfire, and I can mix water into ration pellets." He made a great show of preparing the infusion. "And make tea, too. With the last of your precious Phindian honey, Master." The emptied container went sailing in a Force-propelled arc into the 'cycler.

But two could play at that game. "Indeed? I had forgotten you are already such a paragon of culinary skill. Why should one of such high achievements have to suffer the ennui of basic cooking lessons?"

"Why indeed?" came the inevitable flippant reply. "My point exactly."

"Point taken."

Obi-Wan's dimples made a cameo appearance as he lifted his cup in satisfaction at having scored an easy victory.

"...Tomorrow you can instruct the younglings. Such expertise should be shared."

The padawan promptly choked on his scalding ha'chi.

"Good. That's settled." Qui-Gon thumped his student on the back a few times as he passed by en route to his own bedchamber. "I am sure Quinlan will make an excellent sou chef."


	7. Chapter 7

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 7**

Vos countenanced the bad news with characteristic nonchalance. "Teaching, eh? No sweat. We can handle it, man."

At least he was in a reasonable mood this morning. "Of course we can handle it. I have a plan."

"Plan?" the Kiffar scoffed. "You don't need a plan to cook. What do you do, Kenobi, take a standard tactical manual to the 'fresher with you? ...Don't answer that."

Obi-Wan ignored this crass rebuttal. "We will make salad," he continued.

"Salad." Quinlan stuck out his tongue, which was lurid purple, presumably as a result of overindulgence in the yarba seed department. "Sounds boring to me." As though to confirm his comrade's suspicions, he popped a mouthful of crackling seeds in his mouth and masticated their hard salted shells, a rare contemplative light in his deep set eyes.

"We have not been commissioned to manage a three ring circus," his companion pointed out, tersely. "We are teaching younglings how to cook. And in that respect, salad does not present any unwanted complications."

"Except for general boredom," Vos qualified, still chewing his cud.

"I've already selected several possible recipes from the Archives records. They call for ingredients readily available in the commissary, and minimal preparation. I think-"

"Too much," the Kiffar interrupted, expectorating the mashed detritus of his seeds in a perfect parabolic arc. The disgusting wad of spittle landed beneath a flowering mandrangea bean bush.

"Vos, please."

"What? So salad, huh... I say we innovate."

"THis is a cooking lesson, not a negotiating table: we do not deviate from the recipe," Obi-Wan insisted.

Quinlan shrugged, heading an adjacent pathway in the arboretum. "That's why you can't cook worth bantha chisszzk, mate. You're hung up on the recipe. The real deal is all between the lines, you know what I mean?"

His fellow padawan was all too familiar with this rhetorical trope. After all, his own revered mentor was notorious for reading between the lines of the Jedi Code when it suited him, and had often exhorted his apprentice to read between the unctuous lines of politicians' discourse. BUt this was an entirely different affair. "No, I do not," he snipped.

"Well, it's like this: there's the Living Force and the Unifying Force. Following the recipe is like listening to the Unifying Force. But being mindful of the Living Force would mean-"

"Food poisoning, nine times out of ten," his companion supplied.

They reached a fork in the meandering footpath. "Guess we're going to have to settle this like gentlemen," Vos decided, coming to a standstill.

A tempting proposition to be sure, but... "We haven't time to visit the dojo."

The young Kiffar shrugged. "We're stuck with this cooking gig. Might as well make it a contest."

"A contest." Obi-Wan snorted. "Really."

"Yeah. We can see who's right and who's got bantha balls for brains."

Faced with such a flagrantly absurd ultimatum, with such high dicta of philosophical and moral principle on the line, no budding Jedi Knight worth his salt would shy away from the challenge. Obi-Wan planted his feet shoulders' width apart and lifted a sardonic brow. "Fine, then. May the better man win."


	8. Chapter 8

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 8**

**"**And you expect me to be the judge of this damn-fool contest?" Troon Palo's purple gums peeped from beneath his dark lips as he chuckled grimly at the prospect.

"Yes, Master."

The clanmaster propped both furry fists upon his hips, where a wide belt held faded linen tabards in place over a colossal chest. His glittering eyes betrayed his secret amusement. "All right, then. It can't be any worse than your _first_ foray into culinary arts, Kenobi. Let's see what you and Vos are made of, eh?"

"That's the general idea, Master. Thank you."

Across the room, Quinlan drew a finger across his throat and pointed at his opponent; Obi-Wan dismissed this pathetic attempt at mime-craft and intimidation with a disdainful half shrug.

"All right, you lot!" Troon hollered at his boisterous clan. "Yer dividing into two groups today. Divvy yerselves up between Padawan Vos and Padawan Kenobi."

Small feet pattered eagerly across the smooth floor; bright eyes danced and shrill voices piped a hundred curious questions. When the tumult subsided, the classroom was bifurcated rather unevenly - Obi-Wan having, besides his fair allotment of minions, a definite majority of the clan's girls gathered round him in an adoring knot.

"Um... Master?""

Troon snorted loudly. "That's it. You: Ling-Ling, and Eiran, Aneiki, Anuk, Ruhin. Scoot yerselves over here on Quinlan's side. That's better."

The adjustment was obediently if not graciously effected; many a sullen muttering and a disappointed moue accompanied the necessary restoration of balance.

"Right then. Take it away, lads."

Faced with his diminished but still dedicated squadron, Obi-Wan drew himself up and issued the first instructions. "Today," he informed his wide-eyed crew," We shall make salad. Smassa sprout and arkkhula with muja vinaigrette, to be exact. Any questions?"

It was best to solicit such feedback often; Qui-Gon had taught him that questions left unasked at the beginning soon went to seed and resurfaced as thorny problems later. Several hands shot up.

"Is that a _real__ lightsaber? _That you made yourself?"

"How many markers are in your braid?"

"I don't like arkkhula."

"How old are you? Thirty?"

"Will we get to use _knives_ today?"

"How come you're a padawan but you have to take this class with us?"

Steadfastly navigating his way through this maze of irrelevancies, he drew their wandering attention back to the only important query. "We won't need knives for this recipe."

This inspired loud groans of disappointment.

"How 'bout fire?" Sagge-Win suggested, hope burning in limpid round eyes.

A swift glance over one shoulder revealed that Vos' company was already busily _chopping- _or at least mutilating- a generous heap of vegetable matter. With knives.

"Blast it." Never mind the question and answer session; it was time to focus on the present moment. "Pay close attention," he instructed his diminutive assistants. "And do exactly as I do."


	9. Chapter 9

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 9**

A pall of bemused discontent hung over the Jinn-Kenobi quarters that evening.

"I simply don't understand," Obi-Wan asserted, settling mournfully atop a wide meditation cushion and drawing up his knees like a pouting grog perched on a lily pad.

Placidly ensconced opposite his crestfallen apprentice, Qui-Gon merely lifted his brows. "It is not such a very complex situation, young one: you happen, for once, to have lost a contest."

"Yes- but... but how did that happen?" the vanquished saladier demanded of his teacher, of the far wall, of the Force in general. "I should be smarter than that!"

The tall man chuckled a bit at the affronted slump in his student's posture. "Perhaps your opponent was even smarter than you," he mildly suggested.

"This is Quinlan Vos we are discussing, Master."

"All the same, surely you entertain no delusions of omniscience? Let us be honest, Obi-Wan: your foremost talents lie outside the realm of domestic arts." He cast a pointed and critical eye upon the discarded cloak flung in an untidy heap near the door.

But bitter defeat had rendered the padawan temporarily inconsolable. "Cooking may not be my forte, but I ought not to have been bested by someone who slapped a handful of mangled vegetable rinds together, drizzled some revolting concoction over the mess, and then gave the whole pathetic assemblage a pretentious name! 'Rancor-breath ragout' _my arse_ - it wasn't even a proper salad, but Troon gave him extra points for creativity." A deep scowl. "And the younglings liked it better, too."

"I do believe your feelings have been hurt," Qui-Gon observed, feigning sympathy.

Obi-Wan lifted his chin obdurately. "I do not harbor any feelings whatsoever about this star-forsaken _travesty!_ I am merely pointing out that the outcome was objectively absurd."

The Jedi master clasped his hands loosely in his lap. "That, my young friend, is why you fail: cooking is not an abstract science nor a game of strategy, nor yet a collection of aphorisms to be memorized. Its mastery requires subtle attunement to the Living Force - or at least a frank and accepting relationship to one's sensory appetites."

"I suppose that's the object lesson in all this," Obi-Wan grumbled.

"Oh no no; you still have much to learn in this respect. However, "- Qui-Gon raised a placating hand - "since you seem to have surpassed the limits of your tolerance, I shall excuse you from further-"

"No!" his apprentice interrupted, voice rasping with an edged vehemence. "I am _not_ surrendering. Master Palo has agreed to a re-match. If Vos thinks he can rest on his laurels, then he has another think coming."

The Jedi master released another long centering breath. "To quote a sporadically wise acquaintance of mine, why do I have a bad feeling about this?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 10**

"Face facts, Kenobi: you're a sore loser."

Obi-Wan accelerated the tempo of his level four velocity until his 'saber's blade was a continuous blur of sapphire light, its signature hum a threatening subliminal rumble. "I would gladly reduce you to the same condition," he grunted.

Vos idly rolled back to his feet from a one-armed handstand. "With that thing?"

Insults to his honor were one thing, but disparagement of his _lightsaber_ was... insufferable.

"Yes," he snarled.

Quinlan rolled his shoulders a few times and grinned impertinently. "I'm more in the mood for open-hand."

An advantage in height and sheer musculature fell to Vos' side of the equation, but this consideration weighed as nothing in the scales of his opponent's outrage. "Fine. But grappling precludes the use of t_eeth_."

Spreading his hands pacifically, and starting an assessing prowl about the sparring circle's perimeter, Vos flashed a dubiously innocent grin. "Bite me."

The battle was joined with a ferocity more evocative of starving akk pups fighting over a scrap pile than of aspiring Jedi Knights engaging in a friendly scrimmage. It was a mercy of the Force that the salles were otherwise unoccupied at this early hour, for the exchange of skillful blows was surpassed only by Vos' inventive deployment of vernacular idiom.

Blushing furiously at a particularly ribald compliment paid to his hindquarters, Obi-Wan paid dearly for his lack of focus. The half-second's distraction landed him hard on his back, wind knocked clean out.

Vos gave him a hand up. "The thing is, man, I won before we started." He tapped his temple. "It's all in the mind, know what I mean? I got your _number._"

The incapacity to speak saved the vanquished youth from further violating the precepts of conduct. He gritted his teeth and bowed, wheezing softly as Vos stripped off his tunic, wiped his tattooed face and shoved the soiled cloth into the laundry receptacle provided for towels. He fastened his tabards in place over an otherwise bare chest. "Good enough for Troon, good enough for me," he remarked, swaggering confidently out the exit.

Dropping to his knees, Obi-Wan sought to regain his center. There was a taste of sour arkkhula in his mouth, and a dull ache in his back and sides.

"He's right you know," Cin Drallig's baritone voice echoed across the empty chamber.

The Temple swordsmaster was leaning nonchalantly in the interior doorway. "It is not superior skill, knowledge, experience or aggression that ultimately wins a contest. It is _focus._"

"Yes, Master." Everybody knew that. He who controlled the context and meaning of a conflict was its master. The true struggle was in the domain of mind, not gross matter. BUt that insight did not assuage the scars of his present humiliation, nor quell his urge to unleash a flood of sophisticated vituperation upon Vos' supercilious head.

The senior Jedi quietly strode across the floor and touched the padawan's back with a calloused hand. " At least let me check your ribs. Come now. GIve the lesson time to digest."


	11. Chapter 11

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 11**

"May I be of assistance, Padawan?"

Jocasta Nu's hair was pulled back in a rictus-knot of unsullied silver; her raptor-bright eyes skewered the prospective recipient of her help with unrelenting acuity.

"Um.. yes, Master. I need this volume, but it doesn't appear to be in circulation."

"Nonsense," the formidable guardian of wisdom snorted. "Let me see."

Obi-Wan pointed to the catalog number in question, relinquishing his seat at the Archives data terminal to a higher authority.

A few minutes silent scrutiny of the computer system, and Madame Nu rose to her feet in a rustle of embroidered cloth. "Hm." Her thin brows lifted in disapprobation. _"Someone_ borrowed that particular reference work ninety-six years ago, and never returned it."

The padawan gave an involuntary cringe, his agile imagination readily supplying what punitive measures might await a culprit of such brazen and magnificent daring.

But the head Archivist only shook her aged head and scrawled something illegible on a sheet of flimsy. "Here," she sniffed, thrusting the enigmatic missive into his hand. "If you want that book so badly, you may fetch it yourself. I do have my limits."

He blinked, non-plussed. "But... who...?"

The librarian had already glided halfway down the aisle. "Master Yoda, of course," she snapped, and then rounded a corner, leaving the young Jedi mired in his own dilemma.

But surrender was not an option. Heart in his throat, he proceeded boldly upwards to the Grand Master's private chambers, only to find them unoccupied. A series of discreet inquiries sent him haring off on a wild bantha chase from the Council spire to the arboretum to the dojo, to the refectory, and then back to the younglings' classroom wing, where he managed to intercept the ancient Jedi between instructional sessions.

"Obi-Wan," the hoary green magister greeted him. "Look of desperate man, you have. Need my help, hmm?"

"Yes, Master. Well, I need a recipe book you might have in your personal possession..." He proffered the Archivist's terse epistle and swallowed audibly.

Yoda squinted balefully at the note, face rumpling into a mass of vexed lines. "Bad book this was. Useless."

"Yes, Master, but I still need it-"

"Need nothing, a Jedi does, except the Force!" The ancient one's gnarled stick was thrust up into his face. "Cooking: no point do I see in it. Ruins good food. Hm."

The padawan shifted nervously foot to foot, queasily contemplating Master Yoda's notorious gustatory quirks. "Yes, Master, but -"

"Enough," the Grand Master chuffed, slamming his cane against the floor. "Know better than to seek wisdom in mere book, you should. Besides, too late is it. Lost volume on Ragoon IV, I did. Ninety years ago." he shoved the note back into Obi-Wan's hand. "Report me to Madame Nu, you should, if demand such action your honor does."

Unwilling to play intermediary in the strife of two such titanic personalities, Obi-Wan shook his head vigorously. "No Master, It is not my place, and -"

"Good," the ancient one snorted, stumping forward along the concourse. "Late I am for teaching little ones. Pester me not anymore about cookbook." A slight pause, in which the pointed ears perked forward and the gimlet eyes widened impishly. "Wonderful, is the mind of a child, Obi-Wan. Wonderful."

His certainty that this last remark was directed specially at him was proportionate only to his uncertainty about its meaning. Obi-Wan sighed, turned tail, and beat a forlorn retreat, heading with lackluster step toward Troon's classroom and the next culinary arts lesson.


	12. Chapter 12

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 12**

"Cut the chatter!" Troon Palo bellowed. "We've got a lot to cover today."

His clan, and its two emeritus members, sorted themselves into a semblance of order, curious hands and eyes tracing over the assortment of kitchenware and tools arrayed upon the counters before them.

When the clamor had died down, their shaggy instructor continued. "Cooking depends on the efficient and intelligent use of tools, much like astronavigation and basic architectural construction. And personal grooming," he added, fixing Vos with a meaningful look. Several of the older younglings sniggered loudly.

"By the end of this lesson, I want you all conversant with the names and functions of the implements before you. Expect to be tested on this knowledge next time we meet."

Vos raised his hand. "Is there an incentive? You know, a reward for parroting back right answers?" He winked broadly at Obi-Wan, who let his own gaze slide evasively away. He would not be baited again.

"Yes," Troon grunted. "THose that pass get to keep their heads on their shoulders."

More giggling from the initiates, who would soon enough - when they were apprenticed - learn that such a lighthearted current of discourse often concealed a deadly riptide of veracity beneath its surface.

"There's a manual in the supply drawer for each station," the clanmaster barked. "Why don't you two smart-akks help the little ones out with the task? I presume your training is up to the challenge."

This was more to Obi-Wan's taste. He retrieved the digital manual from its hiding place and keyed it to the image-based glossary. A half-dozen younglings gathered about him in a docile circle, he proceeded to name and explicate the purpose of their equipment- a motley assortment of bizarre tools the shapes of which suggested rather barbaric interrogation practices or invasive medical procedures. When his own rampant associative whimsy leaked over sloppy mental shields, some of the smaller ones whimpered.

"For Force's sake, Kenobi!" Troon bawled, summarily ousting him from his magisterial role and taking up position in his place. "It's a whisk for frothing milk and other lipids, nothing more sinister... though," he growled, lip curling in menace, "I can imagine certain disciplinary uses for this _spoon_!"

The clan burst into appreciative giggles again, and the chastised padawan slunk away to a private corner to undertake a solitary inspection of the vocabulary list. He had committed to memory most the names and purported uses of the standard kitchen appliances when he happened to glance up, alerted perhaps by a flutter of warning in the Force.

Vos, characteristically impatient with mere theory, had undertaken a more practical demonstration.

"Fire!" Sagge-Win yelped, clapping both small hands in rabid anticipation.

Obi-Wan leapt to his feet. "Vos!" he yelled.

But too late.


	13. Chapter 13

**Recipe for Distaster**

* * *

**Scene 13**

When the conflagration had been doused, the hysterical clan dismissed back to quarters to change their flamm-retardant soaked clothing, and a service droid summoned to repair the scorched ceiling panels, Troon Palo smoothed back his rigid hackle fur and cornered the unfortunate padawans.

"I sense a personal rivalry at the root of this farce," he growled.

"It's just a friendly contest," Vos glibly replied. "That little snafu this afternoon was an accident."

Troon crossed his massive arms. "Accidents have a way of following both you buffoons around," he rumbled, suspicion still coloring his rasping baritone.

"Irresponsible pedagogy can hardly be qualified as an accident," Obi-Wan snipped at his accomplice.

"Says the man who makes younglings cry," Vos shot back, unrepentantly.

"I ought to-"

But the clanmaster's next threat was mercifully cut short by the arrival of Vos' own mentor.

"Quinlan," Master Tholme intoned, stern expression unalleviated by humor. "The report I have just received disturbs me greatly." he cast a wary eye at the blackened splotch overhead. "I expect a very good explanation for such egregious misconduct. You have not stepped so far out of line since that occasion when..." His piercing gaze lighted upon Obi-Wan. "Ah. I should have known. Much becomes clear."

The subject of this veiled indictment bristled but prudently held his tongue.

"Come, Padawan." Vos trailed out behind his master with a startlingly sheepish mien, leaving Obi-Wan alone in Troon Palo's fearsome clutches.

"You've got quite the reputation around this Temple, Kenobi. Ever stop to wonder why that is?"

"I'm an inspiration to all and sundry?"

Troon's unamused growl was likely audible twenty meters down the hall. "That saucy tongue of yours might make the perfect entree for this half-baked contest between you and Quinlan. I've half a mind to call it off - but you know what? I'm going to move it up to tomorrow, make it your final exam, and bid you both a fond adieu."

Tomorrow?" Obi-Wan protested. "But Master-!"

"Don't but-master me," Troon roared. "..And your commlink's pinging."

The padawan fumbled his link out of its belt pouch. "Kenobi."

"There you are." Qui-Gon Jinn's mellifluous voice was slightly frazzled by static. Or perhaps that was chagrin. "Let's skip the preliminaries. Meet me in front of the main promenade in five minutes, and make sure you are suitably dressed for running."

He cut the transmission before his apprentice could bear witness in his own defense.

"I wasn't involved!" the hapless victim of false accusation addressed anyone who might listen.

But Troon only waved a dismissive paw. "Get going. I've had enough of you for one day."

Obi-Wan sighed deeply and tramped away to make long and grueling reparation for Vos' misdemeanors.


	14. Chapter 14

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 14**

Quinlan Vos defied all expectations by displaying a degree of contrition uncommon among feral creatures of his ilk.

"Hey Kenobi," he hailed his agemate. "Sorry about the fark-up earlier today. I hear Master Jinn had your hide."

Shuffling forward in the line of initiates and padawans waiting to be served, Obi-Wan gave an exasperated snort by way of reply. "Your antics had far-reaching consequences, Vos. Let's leave it at that."

The Kiffar demonstrated his goodwill by landing a solid punch against his fellow padawan's shoulder. "You're a card, Kenobi. Glad there's no hard feelings, brother."

In between each of his many penitential laps about the entire Temple perimeter, Obi-Wan had been privileged to receive a most comprehensive drilling at the hands of his own master. He mentally recited the Lotus of Supernal Patience mantra yet again now. _I am a Jedi. I extend the flower of compassion to all sentient beings, regardless of their worthiness in my eyes, or affinity to my self. I am a Jedi. I extend -_

The servitor droid dumped food onto his plate and waved him on, cooing gently at him to make way for others. Nearly comatose from the marathon run, he bumbled his way to a small table recently vacated by a group of noisy younglings.

"Not there, if it's all the same to you," Vos objected, appearing uninvited at his elbow again. "Little kids are the worst. They leave gnarly psychic imprints on everything they touch. I can't even describe it. Ugh."

_I extend the flower of compassion to all sentient beings - even Quinlan Vos - regardless etc etc.. "_Fine." They moved to an empty pair of seats in another section. "Master Yoda says the mind of a child is a wonderful thing." Obi-Wan set down his tray and slid in behind it, ready to drop on the spot.

Quinlan shrugged. "Yeah, not if you gotta experience it firsthand, you know? Telemetry can be a real vetch."

"My heart bleeds for you." _I am a Jedi. I extend the flower of compassion to all sentient beings, regardless of their wretched telemetric powers and propensity for vexing the deuce out of me. I am a Jedi. I -_

"So, looks like the grudge match is all set up for tomorrow," the Kiffar padawan gaily carried on, scarfing down his own supper with an enthusiasm reminiscent of a gundark gnawing upon a desiccated carcass. "Can't help but think this whole cooking class thing has to issue into the greater good."

That was rather broad minded for Vos. Obi-Wan looked up from an apathetic stirring of his arroz and torrfli, and regarded the other young Jedi curiously. "You mean that we've somehow developed a healthy camaraderie through the shared experience?" It would be dreadfully rude to set Vos straight on this point of misapprehension; on the other hand, he only intended to extend the flower of compassion, not the olive branch of peace. "Vos," he began, tentatively, wondering whether his blunt honesty would cost him another few circuits about the perimeter and whether his sore legs could withstand any further abuse. "I think I ought to tell you frankly that -"

"No need to make a dramatic gesture," Quinlan assured him, belching luxuriantly and slouching back in his seat. "I got your number. Plus I always knew you weren't really such a prissy barve beneath the facade. All a guy needs is to be taken down a few pegs and his inner nature shines out. It's like the Force brought us together so you could grow in wisdom."

There was a moment of silence. Vos picked his teeth and rose with a singularly indolent grace. "See ya tomorrow," he promised, sauntering away without a care in the world.

Obi-Wan clutched the edge of the table and recited his mantra over and over and over again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 15**

"Well? How goes the war?" Qui-Gon inquired of his wilting apprentice, when the boy finally manifested himself in quarters that evening.

Obi-Wan could not even muster the energy to fling his cloak on the floor.

"Padawan?"

The young Jedi was looking a bit glazed in the eyes, and his Force signature was distinctly frazzled. "I'm going to lose this contest tomorrow," he intoned, dully.

"Defeat can be honorable," the tall man consoled him, placing a broad hand on either shoulder and steering his student towards the smaller bedroom. "You know this."

Obi-Wan collapsed obediently onto his palette and curled up in his cloak. "Mmph."

A smile playing around the corners of his eyes, Qui-Gon waved the lights off. "I'm certain a solution will present itself," he murmured.

* * *

His faith was affirmed yet again the next morning - for Obi-Wan rose before dawn, a new man.

"Tea, Master?" He held out a steaming bowl with perfect serenity.

"You seem much improved in mien," the Jedi master remarked, somewhat warily. Obi-Wan in high spirits was a force to be reckoned with. And the contest with Quinlan Vos was still scheduled for this afternoon.

"I have had an epiphany," the boy announced, tranquilly sipping his own tea. "I realize that I am not able to outmatch Vos in culinary skill. And so, I've released the desire to do so."

Qui-Gon's grey eyes narrowed. "That was a rapid precipitation of maturity."

His apprentice fixed him with a limpid blue gaze, all innocent and honest and sparkling with barely repressed combative fire. "Yes, Master."

"Hm."

"With your permission, Master, I would like to assist Troon with the younglings this morning."

Something was not quite right here; the senior Jedi felt the Unifying Force's warning slide away just out of his purview, as sprightly and deceptively soft as Obi-Wan's slowly deepening dimples. "Really."

"Yes. You charged me with articulating the connection between cooking and the life of a Jedi. Well, Master Drallig and Master Yoda helped me find the answer."

"Which is...?"

Obi-Wan placidly poured himself another brimful serving. "We come to serve, Master." He raised the ceramplast bowl and savored the brew's subtle tannins, bitter and robust as his own wit. "Cooking is service to others. And so, I may not be able to do much in a kitchen, but I can still serve as the Force directs me. I can at least help insure that the younglings are not endangered. I thought we might practice basic safety a bit. They will be helping Quinlan and me this afternoon."

It was a humble and pragmatic suggestion, one befitting a Jedi and having good sense to recommend it. Qui-Gon set his empty bowl down and studied his padawan intently.

"Very well. You have my permission."


	16. Chapter 16

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 16**

"So you want to make amends for past malfeasance, eh?" Troon's deepset eyes glittered dangerously.

Obi-Wan's meek obeisance seemed to smooth the clanmaster's ruffled fur, however. "Yes, Master. If you are willing."

Troon Palo had his capable hands full at the best of times; Dragon clan was infamously the most boisterous group of initiates in the Temple, generation after generation, time out of mind. "All right - can't do any harm," he grunted, ushering his alumnus volunteer into the clan playroom.

It took a few minutes to stamp out the brushfires of enthusiasm the padawan's presence inspired. Yendil and Borah had to be reprimanded for fighting over territorial rights to his knees, and the entire assembly quietened with a stentorian roar from their caretaker. And even after the fact, a few small voices dared to implore the visitor to tell them a story.

Troon ran a huge paw through his silky head fur. "They can never get enough story-time," he sighed.

Fortunately, the newcomer was not cowed by the challenge. "Listen," he addressed the rascally crowd of younglings. "We are going up to the student kitchen again. There we will carefully practice using all the tools - yes, including the knives - especially the knives - and if you concentrate and behave yourselves, I will tell you _many_ stories."

"Scary stories! With _tentacles,_" one of the astute older girls qualified.

"Yes, all right," he glibly promised, enraptured audience following upon his heels all the way down the concourse like the children spirited away by the charms of the fairytale piper. Their clanmaster brought up the procession's rear, content enough to allow another to shoulder his daily burden for the space of a blessed hour.

Once settled in their places, they got down to work with a will. Where little ones were concerned, tactile learning was the best method, as Obi-Wan recollected quite clearly from his own early years. He made sure that every piece of equipment was well-handled, passed hand to hand, manhandled and manipulated in the proper fashion, many a time. Safety, surely, could not be emphasized enough - and between his gentle encouragements to the younglings to familiarize themselves with the whole bevy of assorted tools, he spun a few choice yarns: stuff guaranteed to satisfy even the insatiable appetite for the outre demanded by his discerning audience. Jedi initiates led a relatively sheltered life; the narration of a few harrowing exploits from his career as Qui-Gon's apprentice were sufficient to practically rivet the listeners in place.

Indeed, Troon had more than once to clear his throat when a colorfully recounted memoir verged into territory that might inspire nightmares or worse. Needless to say, the clan lapped up every word and begged for more.

When the hour was nigh on mid-morning, the clanmaster called a halt. "That's enough! Tidy up all this lot.. we've got to use these things later today. We've got lessons to attend... and so has Padawan Kenobi, I'll wager."

The clan made their newest hero many a polite bow, and many a warm expression of gratitude.

Obi-Wan returned the courtesy. "It has been an honor to learn alongside you," he rebuffed their fulsome praise. "I am in your debt."


	17. Chapter 17

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 17**

The culinary gladiators showed up for their appointed death match earlier than either judge or audience, and found themselves loitering in the same stretch of upper concourse outside the student kitchen.

Vos was armed with a veritable hecatomb of exotic vegetables and a packet of hard-shelled mollusks.

"Snails?" Obi-Wan exclaimed, ill-diguising his disgust.

"You gotta broaden your palate, man. This is a delicacy on my homeworld."

"It's a garden pest on my homeworld." Or at least, so he assumed. Surely his forbears would never have sunk to such barbarous depravity, even faced with starvation. He fancied he could feel their revulsion echoing down the corridors of time.

Quinlan bared his white teeth and extended a hand, open-palmed. "No hard feelings about today's outcome, Kenobi? I know you've got a hang up about this cooking thing."

"I attribute little importance to this contest," his fellow padawan snapped, keeping his focus entrenched within the ought-to-be rather than the is-so-now.

Vos rolled back and forth on his heels a bit. "Let's get this show on the road," he muttered.

* * *

Their wait was of short duration; soon enough they were elbow deep in their respective preparations. a gaggle of eager younglings at either chef's beck and call. Obi-Wan had sternly abjured his own staunch fans not to play favorites, for such personal preference was unbecoming of a Jedi and most dishonorable. Those that clustered round him now displayed a loyalty to his cause bordering on fanatic devotion, but he had little attention to spare this disturbing fact.

He was too busy wondering how in the blazes he was to transform some minced maravia, two diced dipplis, and a pinch of Rodian spice into the gustatory marvel depicted in his cook-holo. It had perhaps been nothing short of hubristic to choose for his masterpiece a dish that involved more than two ingredients. Mouth twisting bitterly, he ordered his assistants to standby with the flame retardant canister.

"Seared" had a variety of connotations, after all.

Perspiration trickled past his frayed collar when Troon and the other judges - Qui-Gon and Master Tholme, naturally - strolled by on an inspection circuit. Not since his own initiate days, during the gut-wrenching ordeal of an exhibition tournament with all the Temple's masters looking over hopeful padawan-prospectives like ranchers at a cattle auction, had he been subject to such nerves. The only thing that would make this situation more intolerable would be the sudden arrival of...

He clamped down on the image before it could translate over his rigid mental shields.

Of course Qui-Gon sensed the thought anyway. His brows lifted inquisitively though he mercifully did not ask aloud why his apprentice was just then envisioning Siri Tachi with golden hair coming loose from its braid and broad-handled kitchen spoon hefted in one hand. He merely dropped his voice to a mellow whisper and advised his struggling protege to _focus._

And a good thing too, for the maravia was nearly seared to a crisp.

"Blast it!"

"Five minutes," Troon roared, in warning.


	18. Chapter 18

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 18**

Wiping his forehead with one dipli stained tunic sleeve, Obi-Wan scraped the remaining maravia from its pan and set about arranging the flayed and blackened victims of his attention for official presentation. It was to be hoped that he would not be hauled before the Republic Tribunal for crimes against sentients when this debacle was over. He finished his task with a full sixty seconds to spare, and celebrated by performing his favorite Ataru opening salute with the large saucepan, much to the unmoderated delight of his diminutive kitchen staff.

_Take that, Vos._

Free for the first time since the contest's inception to spare a glance at his cocky opponent, Obi-Wan was rewarded with a vignette of unparalleled disorder. Quinlan's workspace was a study in slovenly disorganization, the yet-disparate elements of his dish still strewn willy nilly across counters and cooktop. But more arresting still was the spectacle of the perpetually suave Kiffar clutching his head in distraction and muttering frenziedly to himself. His erratic motion upset a pan of heated oil, and Jedi reflexes or no, the planned delicacy was instantly transmuted into snail flambe.

One of the younglings took it upon herself to smother the towering column of fire with extinguishing foam, spatters of shich lodged themselves in Vos' artfully gnarled locks.

Though stern, Master Tholme was not insensate to the pleas of pathetic life forms; upon seeing his apprentice reduced to such an abject and irrational condition, he inserted himself into the midst of chaos, grabbed the stricken Kiffar by both shoudlers, and shepherded him into the outside corridor.

Vos' frantic recitation echoed in the abrupt silence. "Beetles, ugh... snow.. fire... falling... dizzy... tentacles! Oh man!"

The pressure door slid closed behind the distraught lad and his worried mentor.

"All right," Troon grunted, whisking both entries up to the front table for judging. "Let's have an end of this nonsense." He drew himself up to his full brobdignagian height and courageously sampled either dish, lips curling in a truly fearsome grimace of disgust as he choked down a tiny forkful of each.

"For the love of the Force!" the clanmaster wheezed, snarling and coughing in the aftermath of this brash action.

The last man standing waited upon his judgment with baited breath.

Troon stuck out a rough, pink tongue. "That was the foulest chiszzk I've ever tasted, Kenobi!"

Obi-Wan squirmed in place.

"But Vos' cess-pit was even worse! You win - and you're banned from the Temple kitchens for life!" the hirsute master huffed, overstepping his own authority by several degrees.

The younglings upon either side cheered and cavorted wildly; Troon excused himself to the 'fresher with a haste seldom seen in a full ranking master; Qui-Gon quietly appeared at the victor's side and steered him out the door without another word.


	19. Chapter 19

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 19**

"Quinlan! Quinlan, talk to me."

Master Tholme's deep voice carried down the corridor to the unoccupied classroom where Qui-Gon Jinn grimy cornered his own apprentice. Looming close, hands spread out upon the wall to either side of the boy's head, he raised a sardonic brow.

"I believe you are owed congratulations for both winning and losing a contest in one masterful stroke. Another demonstration of tactical genius."

Obi-Wan pressed his back against the unyielding plaster, but there was nowhere to retreat. "Thank you, Master, " he peeped.

Vos' anguished voice reached their ears in muffled fragments. "Everything I touched... horrible images... couldn't stop it..."

"Pray tell, whence came the inspiration for this bold strategem?"

There was a queasiness stirring in his gut that had nothing to do with his recent culinary production. Obi-Wan swallowed around a rising gorge. "Master Drallig said that a battle is won not by force of arms but by subtlety of spirit, and Master Yoda said that a wonderful thing is the mind of a child and Vos said that younglings leave intense telemetric imprints on everything they touch, and I ... um.."

Qui-Gon remained dangerously calm. "You laid a psychic booby trap for Padawan Vos."

"Focus determines reality, Master."

The tall man's next exhalation echoed the snort of a bull nerf preparing to gore a hapless intruder. "Indeed it does, Padawan."

Obi-Wan did not like the way his mentor's focus seemed to be trained at this moment. His gaze slid sideways as footfalls faded into the distance outside, the words "healers' ward" wafting to his ears on a current of dwindling distress.

A strong hand seized his chin and dragged his attention back to center. "Cold-blooded and brilliant," Qui-Gon remarked, mouth pressed into a hard and expressionless line. "You cook like a very dangerous man."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master." His knees were feeling a bit watery now; he rammed his back straight and sucked in a deep breath.

"You are looking a bit green about the gills," the Jedi master observed. "Does victory not sit well with you?"

The answer took a colorful and expressive form; only Qui-Gon's Jedi reflexes saved his boots from collateral damage.

I'm sorry," his apprentice rasped. "I'll clean up the mess."

"That would be wise.. in more than one regard." The senior Jedi paused in the open doorway to dish out another serving of insight. "The connection between culinary arts and the life of a Jedi is this: cooking, more than any other skill, exemplifies the fundamental law of interconnectedness. In all that we do and say, we ultimately reap what we have sown. Or in this case, we literally eat the consequences of our actions. You would do well to meditate upon this truth."


	20. Chapter 20

**Recipe for Disaster**

* * *

**Scene 20**

"What are you still doing skulking about here?" Ben To Li demanded of the waiting area's single tenacious occupant.

Obi-Wan raised a weary head form its resting place between his hands. "I was hoping to speak to Padawan Vos."

The Temple's senior healer cocked a silver brow at the young Jedi and twirled his beard between two fingers. "It's your lucky day - I've just released him. You two are cut of the same cloth, where cooperation is concerned."

The padawan stood, fingers laced tightly together within his voluminous cloak sleeves. When Quinlan made his appearance, bold yellow facial markings looking a bit garish against pallid skin, the guilty party bowed deeply before him. "Vos. I beg you to forgive my dishonorable and thoughtless actions. I did not consider the consequences of my deeds, and I was motivated by selfishness and arrogance. I have wronged you greatly and I wish to make amends."

There was a hesitation on Quinlan's part. "Well," he said, after a significant span of time in which his supplicant remained meekly bent before him. "That was _some_ chisszk you pulled, Kenobi. My head's gonna hurt for a week. I misjudged you, man - I thought you were way too stick up the arse to try something like that."

Obi-Wan winced. But he was here to eat humble pie, and he would do the job properly. "I have proved beyond a doubt which one of us has bantha balls for brains," he replied.

Vos stepped forward and punched him hard in the shoulder. "Yeah!" the irrepressible Kiffar snorted. "Both of us, brother."

His agemate straightened, rubbing at the bruised spot. "But I -"

Quinlan grinned widely. "Hey, Kenobi, loosen up. It takes more than that to cook my goose."

"Oh. Well, then."

Vos slung an arm around his shoulders and propelled him beneath the wide entry arch. "Do it again and I'll kill you, of course."

"Well. You can try." It was ...odd... to be seen in the main annex hall literally arm in arm with the Temple's resident hellion. But a lesson learned was a lesson learned.

"Besides, I owe you big time - word is Troon banned us both from ever cooking again. Nice one!"

"That was the general idea," Obi-Wan admitted.

They proceeded up a wide staircase in what amounted to amicable fraternity. Somewhere deep in the Force a tiny blossom of compassion shyly peeked its head out from beneath the ruinous debris of the last day. A deep centering breath - best not to think about it too much, focus on the present moment - and then..

"Vos. I'd like to buy you dinner. I know a place in CoCo Town - a friend of mine owns it. You'll like him."

Quinlan perked up. "Yeah? How's the food?"

Obi-Wan beamed. "Absolutely ghastly."

They sauntered toward the upper levels and the south hangar bay, side by side, with a shared and healthy appetite.

* * *

The End


End file.
